


Strange Night At the End of the World

by easmith32



Category: Wheel of Time - Robert Jordan
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-07-13
Packaged: 2020-03-01 15:01:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18802699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/easmith32/pseuds/easmith32
Summary: Mat is drunk. Talmanes is analytical. I dashed this off in 45 minutes. Be kind. Um, this is before Mat is sent to help Egwene so assume neither of them knows about the whole Daughter of the Nine Moons thing.





	1. Chapter 1

Somewhere in Andor

 

"You're bloody horrible."

Talmanes looked up from his well deserved pipe and book. There, weaving drunkenly, was Mat Cauthon. The greatest strategic commander Talmanes had ever encountered hiccuped softly and repeated.

"You're bloody horrible."

Being Cairheinien, Talmanes had learned discretion and subterfuge from the cradle. He knew ten different ways to say Good Morning, depending on the rank and reputation (not always the same thing) of the person in front of him.

So, while gently steering his superior officer to a comfortable camp chair and watching him gently slide out of it to sit cross-legged on the floor like the farm boy he was, Talmanes examined the sentence from every angle and settled for a neutral, "Alright. May I ask why?"

Mat looked down from where he had been squinting at the elaborate needlework on the ceiling of the tent. Tilting his head to the side he asked, "Why what?"

Talmanes resisted the urge to sigh and run his hands over his eyes. Not only would it have been an unforgivable display of emotion, but when it came to Mat Cauthon, Talmanes was very worried that if he started he might not be able to stop.

"Why am I horrible?"

By this time Mat had fallen backward and was contemplating the ceiling again.

"Oh... you're horrible... bloody awful... can't stand it...with your manners and your...lordness"

Talmanes suppressed the urge to flinch at this brutal assessment of his character. He had been harboring hopes that he and Mat ('Cauthon. Call him Cauthon, Tal') had been coming to an accord. Of course, he knew Mat's opinion of the higher classes. Light knew, he'd been extraordinarily vocal about it. And, naturally, he knew there could never be true friendship between them. Cauthon was a farm boy at heart, easily shocked by the different morals displayed by the nobility. Darkness and Light, the boy was still surprised by the bawdier songs sung in the inns they drank in! If he knew the things Tal had done and seen by his age...

Gritting his teeth at the usual round of thoughts that came in Mat Cauthon's presence, Talmanes stood and reached down. Hauling Cauthon to his feet, he caught the tail end of his mumbling.

"Hate it...your eyes.... can't like your eyes.... not supposed to notice"

Talmanes almost dropped Mat face first into the fire. What in the Name of the Topless Bloody Towers could that possibly mean?


	2. 2

π¶∆£¢¥√

 

Talmanes was tired. The sort of tired you feel more in spirit than body, although his eyes did burn to close and his head would most assuredly not thank him during morning inspection. No one would be able to tell, of course. But he'd know and it was enough. He sighed as the sounds of the third guard change reached him. Four in the morning, then. No point in sleeping tonight. He sipped his wine, stared into the fire and returned to his meditations.

All over the known world, from the Borderlands (and likely beyond into The Blight if The Dark One and His Horrors bothered to think about it), down to Tremalking and the Sea Folk Islands, people talked about the Cairheinien Royal Court and the Games if it's nobility.

'They play the Game of Houses in the Nursery.' They'd say. 'And learn assassination in the schoolroom.' Was the reply Tal had heard in drinking dens from Falme to Tear.  
Which was both true and wildly exaggerated. He allowed himself a grim smile. He'd been every day of seventeen before he'd had to order anyone killed, well out of the schoolroom. All that talk of manipulation and scheming from cradle to grave, and not one of the Wool headed sheep kissing Light blinded FOOLS thought about what that really meant.

His mother had called him 'two-souled'. She told him it was a Blessing of the Light, that his duties as a noble would come easier to him than others because of it. Even at nine years old, he'd had his doubts about that. But he'd nodded dutifully and controlled his face. Now, it seemed like control was the last thing he was capable of. So, he began to list his reasons again.

He's a farm boy. You could still smell the hay in his hair.   
(Don't think about the smell of his hair, Tal.)  
He's a superior officer. It would be terrible for morale.   
(Not to mention you're almost ten years his senior, Tallyboy.)  
He naturally flirts with everything that breathes. It doesn't mean anything.  
(That comment about Tal's eyes, though.)

Talmanes was a perfect Cairhienian nobleman. The only indication of his circling thoughts was a slight tightening of the mouth and a slight narrowing of his eyes. Bleakly, he came to the same conclusion that he had reached three watch changes ago. Best to ignore and not say anything. 

He poured another glass of wine.


	3. Chapter 3

£¢¥^¥€¢£

May winced at the ceiling of his tent and cursed wine, winemakers, pretty girls who served wine, innkeepers who provided the wine, and grapes in general to the darkest Pits of Thanken'dar. His head felt three times its size and there was an army of Trollocs dancing a jig. Badly. His last memory of being this hungover was 300 years ago when a Warder had challenged him to a drinking contest. He wasn't sure that wasn't what had killed that version of himself.

He had to stop doing this to himself. It hadn't yet interfered with his running of the Band, but drinking himself unconscious every day for a week was bound to cause questions sooner rather than later. He had too many memories of the bad results of drunken commanders to risk his men lightly. If it weren't for Talmanes, he likely would be in trouble with his men.  
But then, he reflected grimly while blindly scrubbing his face in a vain effort to waken, if it weren't for Talmanes he wouldn't be drinking so hard every night. The man was impossible.

He was intelligent, cautious, well mannered, assiduous, and a bloody great soldier. He was also distracting, stubborn, stiff necked, and right entirely too often. And, he should have looked ridiculous, Mat thought as he dragged his boots on more savagely than usual, with his partially shaved head and grim face. He should be a figure of fun, with his pomposity that would rival a Tairen High Lord.

Mat sat down on his cot, laid his aching head in his hands, and groaned. All of these facts were true.

None of them made Mat want to kiss him any less.


	4. Chapter 4

£¢€¥^^¥€¢£

Inspection was torture for them both, but most of the men couldn't tell. Most of the men worshipped their commanders as only soldiers can. Lord Mat may look young and drunk, but he had the Dark One's Own Luck and a plan for every conceivable military scenario known to Man. And, if he didn't, Lord Talmanes would. Every soldier knew Cairhienian commanders were the best for a long campaign. Their Daes Dae'mar Training made for cunning commanders who excelled at the long game. Yes, anything Lord Mat didn't think up, Lord Talmanes would. Most soldiers have the blind Faith of children.

Chel Vanin wasn't most soldiers. Vanin was a horse thief. And a brilliant one at that. People often mistook his greatest professional skill (and, yes, Vanin considered himself a professional thank you very much) to be sneakiness. They would be wrong. Vanin knew his life and his livelihood weren't dependant on being able to hide. Light above, he himself knew he looked like a walking bag of suet. He couldn't hide if he'd wanted to. Vanin knew the true skill was being fluent in the language of horses. 

Horses don't speak with their voices. They speak with eyes and tail, with shrugs and steps. A horse will tell you everything, if you can listen with your eyes. That's what Vanin's grandpapil had said.

Watching two of the best Officers he had ever encountered wince, mince, and refuse to even look at one another for the 10th day in a row was beginning to deafen Chel Vanin.


End file.
